


Love 'Em How They Take So Long

by Leslie_Knope



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 05:02:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7963435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leslie_Knope/pseuds/Leslie_Knope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because really, what are the chances that Stiles meets the love of his life in the Olympic Village dining hall?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love 'Em How They Take So Long

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from “Kings of Summer” by ayokay.

Stiles gasps, stopping in his tracks, and Scott whirls around with his eyes narrowed. “Buddy? What’s wrong?”

“Look at all the food!” he says as he spreads his arms wide, almost smacking a British girl in the face in the process. “This is the most glorious sight I have ever seen with my own two eyes. All the hard work has been worth it, just for this.”

Scott grins and grabs his elbow to tug him forward. “This is the Olympic Village dining hall, Stiles. Of course there are lots of options.”

“But—but look how much there is!” he said, looking around wide-eyed at the different cuisine areas and of course, the McDonald’s, which has a startlingly long line. They spend a full 10 minutes exploring all of their options before loading up their trays with food. Stiles is a bit of a breakfast purist, though, and mostly sticks with the basics.

He gasps again, right after they hit up the bacon station, but Scott just keeps walking this time. “What now?” he asks over his shoulder, and Stiles rushes to catch up with him.

“Dude,” he says, tugging on his shoulder to stop him. “Look at that guy over there.”

“Which one?”

“The _hot_ one,” he hisses, and Scott gives him a flat look.

“I’m gonna need a little more than that.”

Stiles sighs—sometimes having a heterosexual best friend is a real drag—and points in a manner that he hopes is at least somewhat discreet. “That tall dark-haired guy in the USA shirt.”

Scott follows his gaze and shrugs. “Yeah, he’s good-looking, I guess.”

“You _guess_?” he says, aghast. “He’s like the hottest dude I’ve ever seen.”

“There are attractive people everywhere, it’s the Olympics,” Scott says, and Stiles can’t help but agree. But _still_.

“I’m going to follow him,” Stiles decides, and Scott rolls his eyes.

“Okay, I can’t be seen with you right now. I’m gonna go try to find Allison, I’ll see you back in the room later.”

Stiles nods, completely ignoring Scott as he tracks the mystery guy’s progress through the room. He sits down at an empty table in the corner, and after taking a deep breath, Stiles follows him.

“Hey there,” Stiles says, pasting on his most charming smile and gesturing to the table. “Mind if I sit?”

The guy looks up at him and nods. He is, unsurprisingly, even more handsome up close with ridiculously-colored eyes that Stiles can’t even look at too closely right now. “Yeah, sure. I’m Derek, by the way.”

Stiles takes the offered hand—damn, that’s a firm handshake—and then sits down across from him. “Nice to meet you, I’m Stiles.”

It’s silent for a few seconds as they dig into their respective breakfasts. It doesn’t look like Derek is going to be initiating a conversation anytime soon, so Stiles takes a swig of coffee and steels his nerves. “So my buddy and I have been playing this game,” he starts, and Derek tilts his head as he chews on a piece of bacon. It’s not a complete rejection, at least. “Guess the athlete’s sport.”

Derek smiles for the first time, and Stiles nearly chokes on his ill-timed sip of coffee. It’s a good look on him. “Yeah? Are you any good at it?”

Stiles hummed, waving his hand in the air. “Getting better. Even though I think I offended this guy on the plane who I thought was a table tennis player but was actually a fencer.”

Derek throws his head back as he laughs, and really, it will be a miracle if Stiles manages to get through this conversation. “You wanna do me?” he asks.

There is a long, wholly unattractive second with Stiles’ jaw dropped, before he manages to croak out a _yeah_.

“I’ll try not to be offended.”

Stiles sighs and props his chin on his hand. “Okay,” he says, drawing out the word. “Let’s see.”

He enjoys the opportunity to let his eyes skate lazily over Derek, under the guise of this little game. He’s built, with broad shoulders and nice biceps peeking out of his shirt sleeves, but not overly so. “You’re not eating enough to be a weight-lifter, I don’t think,” Stiles says, “but you’re eating too _much_ to be a wrestler.”

“Neither of those,” Derek says as he continues to eat his oatmeal, seemingly unconcerned by Stiles’ intense scrutiny.

“I don’t think you’re jacked enough to be a gymnast,” he says, and immediately regrets it when Derek lifts both eyebrows. “Shit! Not that you’re not, uh, very—very strong, I’m sure. But you know, those guys have shoulders that look like melons,” he says, needlessly gesturing to his own shoulders. “To be honest, it’s actually a little much for my pref—uh, anyway.”

Jesus _Christ_. He coughs, waving his hand in a vain attempt to brush away his embarrassment, and busies himself with his eggs. “I’m not a gymnast,” Derek says finally, with a little smirk in the corner of his mouth, and at least Stiles hasn’t literally scared him off. Yet.

“Rowing?”

“Nope.”

“Canoeing!”

“Uh-uh.”

Stiles jumps in his seat and slaps the table. “Ooh! I’ve got it, totally,” he says, pointing. Derek quirks an eyebrow, and Stiles lets the silence build for a second before he says dramatically, “Rugby.”

Derek laughs, but he shakes his head. “No.”

“Damn, I really thought that was it. Should’ve figured, though, you’re way too pretty to be a rugby player.” Derek’s eyes widen at that, and Stiles winces. “Fuck, I didn’t mean—you, uh, you just aren’t missing any teeth and it looks like your nose hasn’t been broken four times or anything.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, just goes back to his food, but there _might_ be a ghost of a smile on his face.

“Anyway,” he continues, “have I been close?”

Derek grins. “Not at all. You’re probably not gonna get it.”

Stiles bites his lip. “Shit. It’s one of those obscure sports, then, isn’t it? Handball?”

“The US doesn’t have a handball team.”

Stiles groans and thunks his forehead on the table. “I give up then, I have failed and brought enormous shame to myself. Please tell me.”

“Equestrian.”

He sits back up and gapes. “Dude! Seriously? That’s one of the best ones!”

“Really?”

“Yeah! You ride _horses_ , that’s like the coolest shit ever, and did you know that it’s the only sport where men and women compete against each other?”

Derek smiles. “I did know that, yes.”

“You’re right, though, I never would have guessed it.”

“So you’re really good at your game,” Derek says, dry as a bone, and Stiles huffs.

“Hey,” he says, using a strip of bacon to point at him. “I am _so_ good at picking out the basketball players, you don’t even know. And the lady gymnasts.”

Derek laughs. “I bet you are. So is it my turn now?”

“Yep. Now you try,” he says, gesturing to himself, and Derek smirks.

“Okay.” He leans back a little and twirls his finger in a circle. Stiles blinks, but Derek just repeats the motion. “Stand up and turn around.”

Stiles braces his hands on the table and stands, laughing. He spreads his arms and spins slowly on one foot. “I think we’re getting weird looks right now,” he says over his shoulder, but Derek ignores him.

“Hmm,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. Stiles sits back down and tries to ignore the way it makes his biceps bulge. “You’re tan, so it’s an outdoor sport.”

“Correct.”

“Pull your shirt collar to the side,” Derek says, gesturing, and Stiles freezes.

“What?”

He just gets a flat look in response, so he obeys, trying to avert his gaze when Derek leans over the table to peer closer. “No tan lines. So you either compete or practice shirtless.”

Stiles laughs and tugs his shirt back into place. “Dude, you’re thorough. I wholeheartedly approve of your level of commitment.”

“Let me see your leg,” he says, and Stiles props his foot up on the seat next to Derek with a grin. He looks down and nods. “Not a swimmer, you don’t shave.”

“You are amazing at this game.”

“Well, I haven’t guessed yet.”

“Give me your worst,” Stiles says, giving himself a little Vanna White flourish.

“Okay,” Derek says with a deep breath. “First guess…water polo.”

Stiles shakes his head with a grin. “But thank you for the implied compliment that you think I look fit enough to be a water polo player.”

“Damn,” Derek says with a sigh. “I really thought that was it. You compete solo or on a team?”

“Small team.”

“Beach volleyball,” Derek says, after a long pause, and Stiles claps with a little whoop.

“You got it, dude. Very impressive.”

“Thank you,” he says, bending over in a little mock bow.

“So is this your first Olympics? Considering your level of expertise in this game, I’m guessing no.”

Derek laughs. “No, I also went to London. You?”

Stiles nods. “Yep, total virgin here,” he says and then immediately grimaces—god, he can even _feel_ his blush. “Good lord, I just shouldn’t even be allowed to talk until I’ve had two more cups of coffee.”

Derek gets to his feet with a smirk, and Stiles has _just_ enough time to berate himself for ruining everything before he comes back with two cups of coffee. He pushes one toward Stiles. “Here. It’s a start, at least.”

It looks exactly like the cup he just finished, milky brown from the splash of cream, and he smiles as he pulls it toward him. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So,” Stiles says, searching desperately for a new topic, preferably one where he doesn’t have to talk much, “which, uh, which type of equestrian do you do? There are multiple types, right? My knowledge beyond that is like, zero.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, with a small smile. “There are three types.”

“Do you jump over stuff? That looks terrifying, not gonna lie.”

“No, I compete in dressage, the one that doesn’t have jumps. The _boring_ one,” Derek says, complete with air quotes and an eye roll that shows exactly what he thinks of that.

Stiles nods, knowing that there is some hardcore Wikipedia-ing in his future. “What are you up to today?” he asks, and Derek shrugs.

“Just going down to the equestrian center to check on the horses, our competition doesn’t start for a few days. What about you?”

“First qualifying match tonight, against Tunisia.”

“You nervous?”

Stiles sighs. “Yeah. But it’ll go away—my partner has been my best friend since we were little kids, and we have a lot of fun playing together. Plus, we should win easily.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“We’re pretty good,” Stiles says with a grin, and Derek laughs.

“Glad to hear that.”

“What about you? Medal hopes?”

Derek blows out a breath and scratches at his beard. “Maybe. Great Britain is really good and so is Germany. We could have a chance for bronze. As for the individual…I really don’t know. We would need to have a really good day.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” Stiles says, and Derek smiles, a genuine broad one.

“Same here.”

Stiles licks his lips. “You should come,” he blurts. “Tonight, I mean. If you want. I mean, it’ll probably be pretty boring—they’re not very good and we’ll probably win, but—”

“Yeah, definitely. I’ll be there,” Derek says, cutting him off, and Stiles really hopes that he didn’t just say that to shut him up. He’s still smiling, though, so Stiles allows himself to smile back.

“Awesome,” he says, then braces himself to stand. They’ve long since been done with their food, and even though Stiles would like to talk to Derek all day, he knows that he needs to escape before he makes an even bigger fool of himself. “Well, I should go and make sure that my partner isn’t so infatuated with his girlfriend that he forgets we’re playing today.”

“She here, too?” Derek asks, and Stiles nods.

“Yeah, she’s an archer. Trust Scott to pick a woman who could literally kill him,” he says, rolling his eyes, and Derek laughs.

“Well, thank you for a very interesting breakfast, Stiles,” he says, and god _damn_ , there’s that smile again. “I’ll see you around.”

The words, _any_ words, _all_ the words, are stuck in Stiles’ throat, so he just smiles and waves awkwardly as he backs away.

* * *

 

So Stiles maybe has a crush. A _huge_ crush, actually, one of devastating proportions that somehow hasn’t affected his play, since he and Scott are three matches in and haven’t lost yet. Derek has come to two of them, and they eat breakfast together every day and sometimes also dinner, if their schedules match up. Derek is dryly funny, and smart, and actually really sweet, and even after a few days of knowing each other, Stiles still doesn’t have enough mental fortitude to look directly into his eyes for more than a second or two. It’s like trying to look at the sun or something.

So, worst case scenario, he’s neck-deep in an unrequited love situation; best case, this will be a short-lived fling since he has no idea where Derek even lives. (Because really, what are the chances that Stiles meets the love of his life in the Olympic Village dining hall?) This is definitely a problem—Stiles has enough self-awareness to know that he does _terribly_ with both of those aforementioned scenarios—but he can’t make himself care too much about it yet. Definitely not enough to stop, whatever there is _to_ stop.

“So could I meet your horse?” Stiles blurts out one morning, while they’re lingering over their second cups of coffee, and Derek laughs.

“Yeah, sure. Today?”

Stiles nods. “I have a free day.”

“Okay. No sandals, though,” Derek says, pointing at Stiles’ feet, and he nods.

“Duh, that makes sense. Meet by the shuttles in 10 minutes?”

Stiles probably should have thought this through more, considering that Derek shows up in a pair of tight dark brown pants and well-worn, knee-high leather boots. “Nice pants,” he says, grinning, and Derek rolls his eyes. Stiles certainly wasn’t joking, though, and he most definitely lets Derek go in front of him as they get on the bus.

It isn’t a long trip, and soon enough he’s following Derek through the sprawling equestrian center. The barn they duck into is big and cool, with large fans blowing overhead, and after Derek leads them down the maze of aisles, they come to a section adorned with a flurry of American flags. Derek stops at one of the stalls, making some kind of adorable kissy noise, and Stiles’ eyes widen as a horse ambles over to the door.

“So this is Alexis,” he says, scratching her neck.

“Wow,” Stiles breathes. She’s shiny and all black, save for a broad white stripe on her face, and the top of her shoulder is nearly level to the top of Stiles’ head. “She’s huge. Uh, no offense, ma’am,” he adds, and Derek laughs.

“She takes it as a compliment.”

Derek leans down to kiss her nose when Alexis hangs her head over the stall door, and Stiles practically _melts_. Jesus. “She is really pretty, though. Can I pet her?” he asks, but the words are scarcely out of his mouth before Alexis swings her head over to him and snuffles all up and down his chest. “Oh hey, hello there. Second base already, wow,” he says, reaching up to pat her neck awkwardly.

“Yeah, she’s very friendly,” Derek says before ducking into another stall that looks like it’s been converted into an equipment room. He comes back with an apple and a carrot, which he snaps in half and hands to Stiles. “Now she’ll really like you.”

Alexis moves closer, her ears pricked forward, and Stiles takes an instinctive step back. “How do I, uh—”

“Just hold your hand flat.”

He does, and laughs as she takes the carrot, tickling his palm with her lips. “So I guess the whole horses loving carrots thing isn’t just a cliché?”

“Nope,” Derek says, rubbing the apple on his shirt. He eats a bite, then tears off a large chunk of it with his teeth and drops it in his palm to give to Alexis. They share the rest of the apple that way, and Stiles smiles at the easy way that they interact.

“Okay, I was a little afraid that you were going to literally share that with her,” he says, and Derek smiles around his chewing.

“Nah, I don’t really want any more horse slobber than is strictly necessary.”

“Good call. So do you own her? Is that a dumb question?”

Derek shakes his head. “Not a dumb question. I do own her, but lots of the other horses are owned by their riders’ sponsors.”

“And so they all must’ve…flown here?” Stiles asks, his voice uncertain.

Derek smiles and pats Alexis on the shoulder. “Yep. She has a passport and everything.”

“Wow, really? Did you go with her?”

Derek shakes his head. “All the US horses flew over together on a big cargo plane, with some of our staff.”

“That’s awesome. So can I ride her?” Stiles asks with a huge grin, and Derek laughs.

“Absolutely not,” he says easily, smirking when Stiles pouts. “You can watch _me_ ride her, though, if you want.”

“I will take that deal.” Stiles braces both arms on the stall door and watches Derek get Alexis ready with swift, practiced movements—and lots of equipment that is completely foreign to Stiles. “I feel like I should be helping somehow.”

“Yeah? Do you know what any of this stuff is?” Derek asks, talking over his shoulder from where he’s crouched down and wrapping Alexis’ legs with what look like fluffy white bandages. “So how about you just watch.”

Stiles is a little preoccupied with the whole _Derek crouching down_ thing, though, and doesn’t really answer. Instead he props his chin on his forearms and watches, as instructed—it’s not a bad view, not at all.

When Derek swings the stall door open and leads Alexis out, Stiles tries to duck out of the way and let them pass, but Derek tugs his elbow to propel him forward. “Stay up here, don’t walk behind her,” he says. Derek holds onto his arm for several seconds longer than is strictly necessary, but Stiles stays close until they get outside to a large arena. “I’ll only be 20 minutes or so.”

“Dude, take your time. I haven’t been getting enough time to work on my tan, anyway.”

There’s a small set of bleachers, so Stiles stretches out and savors the warm sun on his face. There are a lot of horses and riders in the arena, and while he swears that horses are about to run into each other every 30 seconds, they never do—there must be some kind of system. He doesn’t understand anything that Derek’s doing, really, besides going at different speeds in different-sized circles, but it sure is beautiful and he looks damn good doing it. Being here in Rio has given him a new appreciation for any type of athletic mastery, and he enjoys watching it even if he doesn’t see the nuance.

Derek eventually waves Stiles over to the arena gate, and he strokes Alexis on the nose as Derek swings down from her back. When he takes off his helmet, his hair plastered to his head, Stiles has to resist the urge to reach over and ruffle it. It’s not the easiest thing he’s ever done.

They walk together back to the US stalls, where Derek takes all of her equipment off before heading back outside again. Stiles watches Derek give Alexis a quick rinse with the hose, laughing when she chases the stream of water with her nose and ends up splashing Derek in the chest. Derek gets him back, though, with a spritz of the hose, and Stiles dances away from it, cursing him.

“You’re the worst,” Stiles says mulishly, shaking his head like a dog, but Derek just smirks some more.

“Uh-huh,” he says dryly.

Alexis finds herself a particularly lush patch of grass, and since Stiles similarly has no desire to go anywhere anytime soon, he pulls himself to perch on top of the nearby fence. Derek joins him, holding the lead rope loosely between his hands, and Stiles bumps their shoulders together gently. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

Stiles shrugs. “Letting me come see her. This is so cool, man.”

“Glad you think so,” Derek says, with a little laugh. “She loves the attention.”

As if she can tell that they’re talking about her, Alexis wanders closer and noses their pockets. “She’s basically a giant puppy dog,” Stiles says, scratching her forehead. “I expected…actually, I don’t know what I expected. But probably not for her to be this calm. Aren’t horses flight animals?”

“They are. It’s partly her personality, she’s just really laid-back. And I’ve owned her for 10 years, so she’s especially calm around me, she trusts me,” Derek says. Having apparently decided that they have nothing more exciting to eat, Alexis goes back to her grass.

“So I have another dumb question,” Stiles announces, and Derek smiles.

“Bring it.”

“Two, actually!” he says, as another occurs to him, and Derek’s smile turns into a grin. “Does she have to be American, too?”

“Nope. She was born in the States, actually, but that’s rare—most of the horses come from Europe, where they have better breeding programs.”

“Got it,” Stiles says with a nod. “And you—you must be a professional, right? Is this your job?”

Derek nods. “Yeah. I own my own barn, where people pay to keep their horses and also for lessons and stuff.”

“That’s awesome. Where?”

“California, about halfway between San Francisco and Sacramento.”

Stiles’ jaw drops. Is he— “Shit, really? I live in San Francisco.”

“Yeah?” Derek looks cautiously optimistic, a small smile curling at his lips, and Stiles decides to take it as a good sign.

“Lived there ever since I went to Berkeley. And I grew up in a little town north of there, Beacon Hills.”

“No way,” Derek says, twisting to face Stiles. “I grew up only about 15 miles from there. My family’s place was on the edge of the Preserve, on the other side from Beacon Hills.”

Stiles laughs so hard that he startles Alexis, and he makes a soothing noise in apology. “Jesus Christ, what a small world.”

“That’s crazy,” Derek says, shaking his head. “There are a fair amount of farms in that area. Have you spent time around horses before?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, never. I mean, I think they’re awesome, but I’ve never ridden one or anything.”

“ _Maybe_ ,” Derek says carefully, stressing the word, “maybe I’ll let you ride her someday.”

“Oh, yeah?” Stiles asks, leaning his shoulder into Derek’s a little bit. He really likes the sound of _someday_ , as if there’s a hypothetical day in the future when they still know each other. “Maybe I’ll just set a really high standard for myself, I’ll _only_ ride Olympic horses.”

Derek laughs. “Well, she’s not an Olympic horse yet, technically. Couple more days,” he says, scratching at his beard. “Are you, uh—do you think you’ll be able to make it?”

“I will be there with _bells_ on,” Stiles promises.

“Awesome,” Derek says, with that broad smile, and yeah, Stiles is _so_ fucked.

* * *

Two days later, Stiles bounds up the bleachers, in search of a good seat. It’s Derek’s first day of competition, and he’s practically thrumming with energy. He’s eager to return the favor for Derek, who has come to almost all of his matches—they’re still undefeated, thank fuck.

He picks a row behind two beautiful dark-haired women, also in USA gear, and smiles at them as he settles in his seat. He and Derek had exchanged phone numbers when he came to Stiles’ first match, so he slides his phone out of his pocket. _I’m here! You probably won’t see this, but good luck!_

Stiles gets a smiley face in response about 10 minutes later, and he’s _really_ thankful that no one’s around to see him grin at his phone like a complete idiot. Nothing has really _happened_ between him and Derek, in a romantic fashion, at least, but dudes don’t really send other dudes smiley faces in purely friend zone situations, right?

One of the first riders to go is a blonde American girl that he met briefly at breakfast one day, and he whoops loudly when they announce her name. She’s on a huge gray horse, and Stiles takes a second—just one—to admire her curvy figure in that outfit.

One of the girls in front of him turns around. “Do you know Erica?” she asks, and Stiles shakes his head.

“No, I’m actually friends with someone else on the team, Derek?”

The girl gasps, while the other starts laughing. “Oh my gosh, you’re Derek’s new friend? The beach volleyball player?”

Stiles freezes. “Um…I guess so? Unless he’s made a habit of befriending lots of volleyball players. Who are you?”

“Laura,” she says, reaching her hand out. “And this is Cora. We’re Derek’s sisters.”

“Stiles,” he says, trying to surreptitiously wiggle his fingers behind his leg after he takes his hand back. God, her handshake is harder than Derek’s. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“So do you know anything about dressage?” Laura asks, and he shakes his head.

“Besides what I’ve read on Wikipedia? Not one damn thing.”

“Okay, then, come here,” she says, grabbing his wrist. When she yanks him to his feet and pushes him down to squeeze between her and Cora, he feels mildly threatened, in an oddly pleasant way. “So they each perform what’s called a test, and it’s predetermined. Each movement is scored from a scale of zero to 10, and your final score is a percentage out of 100.”

She and Cora try to explain the intricacies of Erica’s ride, while Stiles nods along and tries to absorb everything she says. “Do you two do this, as well?” he asks, and Cora shakes her head.

“We all competed when we were younger, but Derek was the only one who stuck with it. Laura and I still ride, though, sometimes, and we keep a horse at Derek’s place.”

There’s a pause in the action, as a tractor comes out to drag the dirt in the arena, and Laura turns to Stiles. “So,” she says, leaning back on her hands in a manner that’s probably supposed to be casual but for some reason looks scary as fuck. “You and Derek.”

 _Shit_. Stiles hesitates. “Um…I—uh, I don’t really think there’s a _me and Derek_ , per se? I mean, we’re friends, but isn’t that kind of nomenclature usually reserved for relationships of a, uh, different nature?”

“You’re not very subtle, you know,” Cora says, without even turning around to look at him, and he huffs.

“I have other strengths,” he says loftily.

“So do you have some sort of Olympic bucket list?” Laura asks, leaning forward with an intent look in her eye. “Everyone talks about all those condoms in the Olympic Village, are you trying to see how many you can use?”

“What? No!” Stiles yelps. “Okay, I feel like this is a little soon to be challenging my intentions, considering that literally nothing has happened between me and Derek except for purely platonic interactions.”

Cora snorts. “From what we’ve heard, and _seen_ , that’s debatable.”

He frowns at her and opens his mouth to respond, but Laura cuts him off. “He’s a nice guy. Don’t lead him on, don’t hurt him.”

“But there—there isn’t anything _to_ hurt…,” Stiles says, trailing off lamely, and he knows without looking that both of them just rolled their eyes. “There should be a synchronized condescension competition, you two would totally win,” he mutters, and the glares intensify. “Ooh, yeah, get the eyebrows going, too.”

“Stop deflecting.” Laura turns a hard stare on him, and he shrinks in his seat.

“Okay, okay! I like him, are you happy now?” he hisses, gritting his teeth. “Huge crush, embarrassing myself constantly, the whole shebang.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Laura says with a grin, looking way too satisfied with herself, and Stiles sighs.

“Can you not—just don’t tell him, okay? I’m getting there. Slowly. In fact, I—”

“Shh,” Cora hisses, smacking Stiles on the thigh. “Stop with all this _feelings_ crap. It’s Derek’s turn.”

Stiles sputters, and Laura cackles. She starts to say something in response, but Stiles tunes her out as soon as he gets a glimpse of Derek. He looks… _regal_ , almost, all tall and proud in a coat with fucking _tails_ and black boots that are even shinier than Alexis’ coat. He salutes to start his test, and it’s an honest struggle for Stiles to keep from drooling. He has a competency kink, that’s for a damn sure, and even though he still doesn’t know much about what’s going on, he knows that Derek is far beyond competent.

He tries to follow along with the girls’ whispered comments, but it’s hard to absorb much when he’s unfairly distracted by Derek’s thighs in tight _white_ pants. The whole thing is just an enchanting rush, and he exhales noisily when Derek stops and salutes for the second time, signifying the end. They cheer—at least, he’s pretty sure they do, his head is still pretty fuzzy—and when Derek finally rides out of sight, Stiles tunes back into reality.

Laura is eyeing him, her lip caught between her teeth as if she’s trying not to laugh. “I take back everything I said.”

“Huh?”

“Heart eyes, motherfucker,” she says, gesturing to his whole body. “You are so far gone on him, it is _ridiculous_.”

“Shut up,” he mutters. He curses the heat in his cheeks and has to fight the urge to cover them. “I am not.”

“Mhmm,” Cora says knowingly, but they go blissfully quiet after that.

Derek needs to be in the top 25 to advance to the team finals, as Laura had helpfully explained, and by the score that flashes up on the big screen, he gets there easily. All the members of Team USA did, actually, and they cheer again.

About a half hour later, Stiles’ phone buzzes.

_Come say hi? Same place as before._

Stiles grins, a small one lest anyone is looking, and slips his phone back into his pocket. “I gotta go. It was…truly lovely meeting the both of you, really.”

Laura rolls her eyes—he’s surprised they haven’t fallen out of her head already—but she smiles as she shoos him away. “Say hi to Derek for us, tell him we’ll see him for dinner.”

“You don’t know that’s where I’m going!” he calls out as he walks down the bleachers, trying to ignore Cora’s catcall.

He’s pretty sure that he knows where to go, and sure enough, he finds Alexis eating grass at the same spot where he and Derek sat a couple days ago. Derek spots him coming and waves, smiling broadly. Stiles smiles back and curses the way that his heartbeat quickens. Derek’s hair is sticking up in odd spikes, and while he’s not wearing his tails anymore, unfortunately, the thin undershirt is _not_ a bad look.

“Congratulations!” he calls out, grinning at the way Derek’s smile turns bashful and he ducks his head. He leans his forearms against the fence in between them and is actually a little grateful for it—otherwise, he’s afraid he’d be a little too tempted to climb Derek like a fucking tree.

“Thanks,” Derek says softly, drifting closer. “It was mostly her, she was great.”

“Well, congratulations to you, too, miss,” Stiles says, holding his hand out and making a little kissy noise. Alexis pricks her ears toward him for a second and then drops her head again back to the grass.

“She only accepts congratulations in terms of treats,” Derek says dryly, and Stiles laughs.

“Your pirouettes were beautiful. Too bad about that little mistake in your tempis, though,” he says, trying to keep a straight face. It’s worth it when Derek tilts his head and crosses his arms, affixing him with a look.

“Since when do you know anything about dressage?” he asks, and Stiles grins.

“I sat with your sisters.”

Derek groans and runs a hand through his hair. “Shit. They’re not normally that bad, I promise.”

“How do you know they were bad?”

“Oh, yeah? So you’re telling me that they were just perfectly normal and nice to you?” Derek says, lifting one eyebrow.

“They threatened me,” Stiles admits, and Derek sighs.

“Jesus. About what?”

“Oh, you know,” he says, trying to keep his expression innocent. “Just in general.”

“Uh-huh,” Derek says dryly, though he thankfully lets that thread of conversation drop. “You have fun?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says with a smile. “Once the discussions of fire and brimstone were over, they were lovely. And I didn’t even ask for any embarrassing stories.”

Derek groans again.

* * *

Two days later, Stiles finds himself sitting in the stands again, this time with Laura and Cora _and_ their parents. Talia and Aaron are tall and dark-haired, no surprise there, and they smile knowingly when he introduces himself. But they seemingly have no plans to interrogate Stiles about his intentions toward their son, thank god, and they make pleasant conversation, mostly about Beacon Hills. Turns out Talia has even met his dad a couple times.

Stiles is gnawing at his thumbnail by the time it’s Derek’s turn, and Cora grabs his hand away from his mouth to hold it between his own. She did the math, and as the last American rider to go, Derek needs at least a 79% to secure bronze for the US. According to Laura, it’s possible but not at all guaranteed, and Stiles is _nervous_. More nervous than he gets for his own matches, even, because here he can’t even do anything, he just has to sit and watch.

And fidget.

Laura sighs in irritation and clamps her hand over his knee, stilling his leg. “Shh!” she hisses, just before Derek enters the arena.

“I didn’t even say anything!” he whispers back. She glares at him but squeezes his hand tightly when he puts his hand over hers.

He doesn’t even really remember the nine minutes of Derek’s test because he’s so nervous, but he has a vague recollection that it was beautiful. They’re all staring up at the big screen, waiting for his score to be revealed.

“It’s going to be close, I think,” Cora says, clenching his hand, and Stiles whimpers.

“Oh my god, I can’t watch, this is torture,” he says, clenching his eyes shut. But Laura screams about 10 seconds later, and Stiles’ eyes fly open and up to the big screen. 80.6%.

He whoops, punching a fist in the air as he stands up. There are hugs all around and lots of cheering, plus waving of the American flags that Derek’s parents brought. Derek must hear them or notice them or _something_ because he twists in his saddle as he’s leaving the arena and sends a wave right in their direction. Stiles waves back, grinning, and wraps his other arm around Laura, who hides her teary face in his shoulder.

They have to wait 20 minutes for the medal ceremony, which is pure torture, and they all move lower down in the bleachers to have a closer view. It’s beautiful, though, and Stiles grins like a madman as the Americans get their medals and take a victory lap around the arena with the Brits and the Germans. All the women are crying, and Stiles wishes he was the type of guy to carry around a handkerchief.

“Let’s go, everyone,” Talia says, ushering them off the bleachers. “If we hurry, I think we can catch them for a few minutes and say hello.”

She knows exactly where to go, and they find Derek before he’s even dismounted. Alexis is covered in a light sheen of sweat, and she looks energetic as Stiles gingerly pats her neck. “I came prepared this time, babe,” he says, reaching into his pocket for a handful of sugar cubes. “Stole these babies from the dining hall. Can she eat these with her, uh, thing on?” he asks, and Derek laughs as he swings down from her back.

“It’s called a bridle. And yeah, the sugar is fine.”

Stiles holds her and feeds them to her carefully as he watches Derek hug his parents and his sisters. He feels out-of-place, almost, but then Derek turns toward him with a grin and his arms still open. Stiles smiles back and takes a step forward. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks for coming,” Derek says, right into his ear as he wraps his arms around him. He’s warm and smells like sweat, but it’s heavenly and Stiles lingers a bit because this is the closest they’ve ever been.

“Wouldn’t miss it. Plus, you, uh,” Stiles says lowly as they pull apart, “you’re really rocking that outfit.”

Derek winks at him, out of view of his family, and Stiles flushes.

* * *

“So can I see it?” Stiles blurts out the next morning, over eggs and toast.

“See what?” Derek asks, with a suggestive tilt of his head, and Stiles swallows. God, he can barely deal with this.

“You know what! Your medal.”

Derek pats his chest and looks down at himself. “Well, darn,” he says with a drawl. “I must have lost it.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you’re hilarious.”

“I know,” Derek says, taking a long swallow of coffee. “The medal is in my room, safe and sound. You can come visit it later.”

Stiles smiles around the lip of his own coffee cup—he’s pretty sure he isn’t imagining the suggestive tint in those words—and nods. “Deal.”

“Where were you last night? We all went out to dinner.”

“Scott wanted to watch film for our game tonight,” Stiles explains, then drops his gaze to the table. “Plus, I, uh, I wouldn’t have wanted to intrude, anyway.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Derek says softly. “I wanted you to be there.”

Stiles ducks his head—why do his blushes have to be splotchy and embarrassing while Derek’s are all tidy and endearing? “Next time,” he promises, and Derek smiles.

“Okay. So what’s your schedule like now?”

“We have several games over the weekend, and the gold medal match—knock on wood—is on Tuesday. You?”

“Individual medal competition on Monday.”

Stiles braces one elbow on the table and smirks. “You nervous?” he asks, and Derek huffs a little laugh.

“Yeah. No American has won an individual medal in dressage in…I actually don’t remember, but it’s been a long time.”

“I have full faith that you can do it,” Stiles says firmly, and yep—there’s Derek’s annoyingly adorable blush.

“Thanks.”

* * *

On Monday, Stiles groans as he stretches his legs out on the bench in front of him and then leans down over them. He’s never played this many games before in such a short stretch of time, and he is _sore_. But it’s all been worth it because he and Scott have made it to the gold medal game, the next day against Brazil. They’ve been practicing and watching tape and talking strategy with their coach nonstop, but Stiles gets to relax for the afternoon and watch Derek. Well, _relax_ is a little generous, considering that he’s about to fidget out of his skin, but still.

For the individual final, today’s tests are done to _music_ , Stiles learns, and while there are certain required movements, each rider choreographs their own test. Derek is one of the last to go, and they’re all hopped up on nerves by the time it’s his turn. They cheer obnoxiously when his name is called, and Talia turns to Laura. “What does he need for bronze?”

“87.1%.”

Cora bites her lip. “I don’t think they’ve ever scored that high before.”

“Don’t be negative!” Talia chides gently. “Of course he can do it.”

Stiles takes a deep breath when Derek enters the arena—you’d think he’d be used to the sight of him by now, but nope. Derek’s music is classical, something that Stiles very faintly recognizes, and it’s big and booming and perfectly set to Alexis’ every footfall. It fits their image perfectly and is so beautiful that the hair on Stiles’ arms stands on end more than once.

When they’re done, Stiles immediately turns to Laura. He knows a little bit now, but really it’s just enough to realize just how _much_ he doesn’t know. It looked great to him, but honestly, he’d probably think that anything Derek did was perfect. “How was it?” he asks, and her smile is cautious.

“Definitely the best they’ve ever done. It’ll be close, though, I think.”

Stiles nods. He watches the screen this time, waiting for the score, and holds his breath. He crosses his fingers on both hands, and maybe also his toes inside his shoes. It can’t hurt, right?

The score finally pops up, and he exhales, turning away from the screen.

“87 flat,” Laura says, her voice watery, and she drops her head into her hands.

“Fuck!”

“Language, Cora,” Talia says softly, but there’s no heat behind it.

Stiles half-stands in his seat and cranes his neck, but he can’t spot Derek, he must have ridden out of sight already. Shit.

Laura’s trying valiantly to blink away her tears, and Stiles wraps an arm around her shoulders. “I really thought he was going to do it,” she says, her voice muffled by his shirt, and Stiles nods. God, he wishes he could give Derek a hug. Professional athletes are competitive fuckers by nature, and Stiles knows all too well how low Derek must be feeling right now.

They watch the medal ceremony in various states of dejectedness and gloom, and after about 20 minutes, Stiles sighs and slides his phone out of his pocket.

_So proud of you. Can I come say hi again?_

**I wouldn’t be good company right now. How about I come by your room later?**

Stiles wants to push, wants to say that he’d love to see Derek, no matter his mood, but he resists.

_Of course. You were so awesome, Derek. Definitely my favorite._

He gets another smiley face in response, and it makes him happier than it probably should.

Laura is leaning close, unabashedly reading over his shoulder, and he belatedly turns the phone away from her.

“He’s not answering _my_ texts,” she says with a sigh, crossing her arms.

“Maybe he likes me more than you,” he counters, and she nods.

“Undoubtedly,” she agrees.

* * *

It’s late, after dinner, when there’s a soft knock at his door. Stiles hops up to answer it, grinning at the sight of Derek as he swings the door open. His hair is damp at the edges, and he’s dressed casually in basketball shorts and a t-shirt. He’s smiling, but it’s small and his shoulders are slumped. “Hey,” he says, swaying forward a little bit.

“Right back atcha,” Stiles says, letting his gaze skitter quickly over Derek’s chest and arms. Because really, how can he not? “I’m gonna hug you now, okay?”

Derek nods, his smile broadening a bit, and Stiles steps forward to wrap his arms around him. It’s a hella good hug, with his face in Derek’s neck and Derek’s head resting on his shoulder, and Stiles tries to pour all his feelings into it. He squeezes a little harder, and one of Derek’s hands slips under his shirt to rest on his hip. His hand is hot, like a brand, and all of Stiles’ attention focuses on that one spot.

“Where’s Scott?” Derek says as they pull apart and Stiles ushers him inside.

“He’s getting a ‘special pep talk,’” Stiles says, with appropriate air quotes and a little shudder, “from Allison. I didn’t ask for details.”

Derek laughs. “Good call. What’re you up to?”

“Watching Parks & Rec,” Stiles says, jerking his chin toward the laptop on his bed. “It’s a, uh, pre-match superstition of mine. Silly, I know, but it helps me relax.”

Derek nods and gestures to the bed. “Can I—”

“Yeah!” Stiles says, a little too enthusiastically. He winces and runs a hand over his hair. “Just, uh, make yourself comfortable.”

Derek climbs onto the bed, grabbing the laptop on the way, and settles atop of the covers on the side of the bed nearest the wall. He rests the laptop on his stomach and opens his arm, gesturing.

Stiles follows him and gets comfortable on his side, tucked up against Derek with his head resting on the crook of his arm. Derek’s arm comes down, curling around Stiles’ shoulder, and he takes a slow, careful breath. This is _happening_ , fucking finally. Everything else could probably be explained away as friendship, but lingering hugs and bed cuddling sure as hell can’t.

Stiles reaches over to restart the episode and leaves his hand there, resting over Derek’s stomach where he’s pretty sure he can feel some nice abs through the fabric.

“Ooh, the harvest festival,” Derek says, and Stiles laughs.

“Want me to go back to the beginning of the episode?” he asks, but Derek shakes his head.

“No, this is fine.”

Stiles can barely pay attention to the show when he’s too busy being painfully aware of every inch where he and Derek are pressed together. It’s a lot of inches to account for, and when Stiles fidgets a bit, Derek increases the amount even more by tangling their legs together.

While the next episode loads, Stiles takes a risk and twists his head to press a kiss to Derek’s clothed shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, not knowing what else to say, and Derek sighs.

“Yeah. It sucks,” he says, squeezing Stiles a little tighter. “And I just keep replaying it in my head, thinking about where I could have gotten that extra tenth.”

“I have been there, it’s the worst,” Stiles agrees. “But oh my god, Derek, you’re the fourth-best in the world! That’s amazing.”

Derek huffs a laugh and smiles. “Thanks, I’m trying to remember that part.”

Stiles’ hand is still on Derek’s stomach, and he slowly walks his fingers across the plane of it. His muscles clench under the fabric, and Stiles tries to hide his smirk—yeah, there are _definitely_ nice abs under there. Derek makes some kind of strangled sound, though, so Stiles stills his fingers and drops his hand back down to his side, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. But when he looks up, Derek’s lips are pressed together in a tight line as if he’s trying really hard not to laugh, and Stiles gasps with glee. “Holy shit, are you _ticklish_?”

Derek groans, clenching his eyes shut, and Stiles hoots. He braces himself up on one elbow, all the better positioning for the vicious tickle attack that he unleashes on Derek. Teeming with breathless laughter, Derek curls up on his side facing away from Stiles, holding the laptop aloft in one hand and batting at Stiles ineffectually with the other. His foot jerks and accidentally makes contact with Stiles’ shin, making him wince.

“Stop,” Derek says firmly. “Lay back down.”

He’s clearing going for stern, but the way that he’s laughing and gasping for breath is kinda ruining the effect. Still, Stiles settles back down as he laughs. “Yes, sir.”

“You are the worst,” Derek grumbles.

Stiles chuckles as he drapes himself halfway atop Derek, pressing his face into his chest and closing his eyes. Derek’s hand drifts lightly up and down Stiles’ back, and the rhythmic caress sends Stiles into a light doze for a little while.

He comes to slowly, this time with Derek’s hand in his hair. “Is Sleeping Beauty awake?” Derek says, his chest rumbling pleasantly under Stiles’ cheek.

“I wasn’t asleep,” he counters immediately, twisting his head, and Derek raises an eyebrow.

“The drool on my shirt says otherwise.”

Stiles winces and pats the spot as he sits up fully. “Sorry. I’ll make it up to you.” He rummages through his nightstand for a minute and turns back around, brandishing a package of Reese’s.

Derek lifts an eyebrow and looks up from where his face is pressed into Stiles’ hip. “Another superstition?”

“Yeah,” he admits. “You want one?”

“Sure.”

Stiles slides back down into his spot against Derek’s side and rips the package open. They each eat one, and then Stiles clears his throat and holds the package out with a flourish.

“And,” he says dramatically, “I like you so much that I’ll let you have the third one. I hope you realize what a big deal this is.”

“Lucky me,” Derek says dryly, but his smile is genuine as he reaches for it. Instead of eating it, he splits it in half with his thumbs and holds one piece out. “I can’t keep you from your lucky Reese’s, though, come on.”

Instead of taking it from his hand, Stiles ducks his head down and eats it straight from Derek’s fingers with a grin. “Thanks.”

Derek laughs and eats his piece, licking his thumb with a flash of tongue that makes Stiles gulp. They watch two more episodes—Stiles stays awake this time, despite the steady metronome of Derek’s breath—and Stiles groans when his phone vibrates on his nightstand.

“It’s Scott,” he says, reading the message. “He’ll be back in about 10 minutes.”

“I should go, then.”

Stiles groans again, clutching onto Derek harder for a second before letting go reluctantly and rolling off the bed and onto his feet. “I hate it when you’re right.”

Derek laughs, and Stiles walks him the whole six feet to the door. Derek pauses before he gets there, though, and turns around so that there’s barely any space in between them.

“Your gold medal match is tomorrow,” he says softly, and Stiles gulps.

“I know.”

“You should probably go to bed,” he says, and Stiles nods, but neither of them move an inch.

“You know what I think would be good luck?”

“I have no idea.”

With a smile, Stiles scrapes up his courage and steps even closer. He slides one hand over Derek’s hip and reaches the other up to touch Derek’s cheek, enjoying the soft rasp of his stubble against the pad of his thumb.

“I have some idea now,” Derek admits, his eyes twinkling, and Stiles turns his head to laugh.

“Oh, good, I was getting a little worried about my signals. In fact, I—”

The rest of his sentence gets lost against Derek’s mouth, but Stiles instantly forgets what he was even going to say. The kiss is soft and tender, almost achingly sweet, and Stiles is frozen in place. The arm that Derek has low on Stiles’ waist tightens as he spins them and walks forward a couple steps, until Stiles is pressed back against the door. His mouth drops open on a groan as he tangles his fingers in the hem of Derek’s shirt, and the kiss rapidly escalates in about a quarter of a second.

They slow down to soft pecks before they finally pull apart. Derek’s cheeks are flushed, his hair ruffled, and Stiles just wants to _ruin_ him.

“Okay,” he says, a little breathless. “Good luck tomorrow.”

He punctuates his words with another kiss, and Stiles grins into it. “Oh, that’s definitely gonna work. But just to be safe, we should probably—”

Derek groans and leans in again. This one is deep and frenzied from the start, and Stiles nips at Derek’s lower lip as he slides a hand up the warm, smooth skin of his back under his shirt. Derek shivers against him when Stiles deliberately scratches his nails back down, making him smile.

Derek pulls back again and takes a deliberate step back. “If I don’t go now, I’m never going to.”

Stiles huffs a laugh and squeezes his hand. “And as tempting as that is…,”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Derek promises, swaying forward for one more kiss as if he can’t stay away. Stiles sure as fuck can’t. “Sleep well.”

He finally slips out the door, and with an audible exhale, Stiles tips his head forward to rest his forehead against the door. He feels like some kind of lovesick idiot, but whatever. He licks his lips, exploring the tenderness, and replays the kiss in his head. Fuck, that was good, way better than he even had imagined.

The door opens suddenly, making him stumble backward, and his yelp of surprise is echoed by Scott’s. “Shit, dude, you scared me,” Stiles says, hand over his heart, and Scott’s face splits into a knowing grin.

“So I saw Derek in the hall,” he says. “And your face looks like you rubbed sandpaper over it.”

Stiles groans and cups his cheeks. “Shut up,” he grumbles. At least misdirection usually works with Scott. “How’s Allison?”

Sure enough, Scott’s smile turns dreamy. “Awesome, as usual. You ready for tomorrow?”

“Fuck, yeah, dude. Let’s go beat the shit out of some Brazilians.”

* * *

Derek wakes up on Tuesday feeling conflicted and more than a little restless. He’s still sad and disappointed about the outcome yesterday—a _tenth_ of a point, Jesus Christ—but is overall very pleased with his Olympics experience. With the results, definitely, and also… _Stiles_. God, Stiles.

Derek was captivated by him the second he saw him, when he commandeered Derek’s attention that one morning at breakfast and tried to guess his sport. They became fast friends, and Derek was thrilled when he started to pick up vibes that maybe indicated Stiles was as interested as he was. And it was even better when they realized that they lived near each other. Nothing’s _official_ , certainly, but the opportunity is there, which is good because Derek isn’t really built for casual. He’s been patient, partly because they’ve had other priorities and partly because this feels important, but he hadn’t been able to resist kissing Stiles last night. Not that he regrets it, not at all, but even having a little taste is making him even more antsy for the whole shebang.

And on top of everything, he’s completely unused to not having anything to do. Stiles’ match isn’t until late, so he has a lot of time to kill. He doesn’t see Stiles all day, nor does he expect to. Instead he goes sightseeing with his family, exploring the beaches and the tourist destinations of Rio. The crowds get to him, though, and he begs off mid-afternoon to take a nap. He and Stiles do text a few times, mostly Stiles relaying the odd motivational techniques of their coach, some dude named Finstock, and confessing his nerves.

He and his family go out for a late dinner before the match, and Derek makes sure to put on his lucky USA shirt—yeah, maybe he’s worn it for all of Stiles and Scott’s matches that he’s gone to, so what. He introduces his parents and his sisters to Scott’s mom, Stiles’ dad, and Allison, trying very hard not to think about how serious this all seems already. Derek sits in the front row between Laura and Allison, and they watch Scott and Stiles warm up. After several minutes, Laura turns toward him and tugs at his arm.

“So Stiles is pretty great,” she says slyly, and Derek sighs. He bites his lip to keep from smiling.

“You think so?” he asks. She nods, and he allows one corner of his mouth to quirk up. “Yeah, I know.”

“So?”

“So what?”

She groans and shoves at his shoulder. “You _know_ what, you jerk. What’s going on between you two?”

Derek sighs again. “We kissed last night,” he admits—he’s learned that whatever information Laura is seeking, she will get it out of him eventually, and it’ll be a lot less traumatizing for everyone if he just gets it over with. “But that’s it.”

She smiles. “Very interesting.”

Derek waits, but she doesn’t say anything else.

“Why aren’t you torturing me over this?” he asks after a minute, even though he knows he shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

Laura shrugs. “It seems important,” she says simply, and even though Derek opens his mouth to respond, he can’t come up with anything.

The match is about to start, though, so he’s saved from continuing _that_ conversation. He locks his gaze on Stiles, who looks good, obviously, in his normal outfit of a tank top, clingy shorts, and backward baseball cap.

Derek loves watching him. Stiles looks to be completely in his element out there, running and jumping and diving around in the sand. He and Scott keep up a steady stream of yelling and banter and laughter, and really, it just looks like they’re having the time of their lives out there. They work together seamlessly and seem to somehow know where the other will be without even having to signify it.

The game is close, enough so that Derek is on the edge of his seat nearly the whole time. Brazil wins the first set and Stiles and Scott the second, each point drawn-out and hard-fought in agonizing fashion. The third set seems to fly by, though, and before Derek knows it, the PA is announcing match point for Brazil.

Laura clutches his hand. “Fuck,” she whispers, and he nods.

They serve, and after volleying back and forth several times, the tall Brazilian guy spikes the ball to the back of the court. Stiles dives for it, laying completely out, but it lands inside the line and he misses it by about an inch.

Brazil wins.

Derek exhales and rolls his shoulders in an attempt to release the tension—shit. Stiles stays there on his stomach as the crowd erupts, his hands buried in his hair, and Derek wishes desperately that he could run out there and give him a hug. But Scott’s there, turning Stiles onto his back and then hauling him to his feet. They hug for a long time and briefly shake hands with the other side before stepping off the court.

Derek doesn’t let his eyes stray from Stiles as he and Scott give a couple of interviews and get ready for the medal ceremony. They finally get a free second, and both of them move to the edge of the court closest to where Derek and Allison are sitting. If he stands and Stiles extends his arm as far as he can over the barrier, they can just brush fingers. “Congratulations!” he calls out, nearly shouting to be heard over the roar of the crowd. The smile on Stiles’ face is wide but sad, and he winks at Derek before waving to everyone else.

“Thanks!” he yells back. “Love you all, see you in a little bit.”

Derek cheers enthusiastically during the medal ceremony. Laura, Melissa, and Allison start an obnoxiously loud USA chant, which gets them boos from the crowd but wide grins from Stiles and Scott.

Afterward, when they’re finally allowed to meet up outside the stadium, Derek sweeps Stiles up into a hug as soon as he’s close enough, not caring about the sand and the sweat. “I was so close,” he says miserably, and Derek squeezes him tighter as Stiles sags against him.

“I know,” he says, right into his ear. “But you were so great, I’m so proud of you.”

Laura joins them, slinging one arm around each of them, and then Scott, and then Stiles’ dad, and soon enough, they’re in one huge group hug.

“I know I missed it, but please don’t kill me by suffocating me!”

Stiles’ strangled voice comes from the middle of the hug, and they break apart through peals of laughter. Derek keeps an arm around him, though, and doesn’t even complain when Stiles wipes his face against the shoulder of his shirt. “Fuck, I’m tired.”

Derek shakes him a little bit. “Let’s just go to bed then,” he says, and Stiles winks.

The four parents are talking animatedly about something, while Laura and Allison are discussing the best location for late-night drinks.

“You guys can do whatever you want,” Stiles says. He gives Scott a long hug, the two of them whispering quietly to each other, and then slings his bag over one shoulder and picks up Derek’s hand. “ _We_ are going back to the Village. Scott, please don’t come back to our room until tomorrow.”

Derek stumbles after Stiles as he strides off, trying to ignore the catcall—that voice definitely sounds familiar. “That was very embarrassing,” he informs him, once they’re an acceptable distance away. “For both of us. I am _never_ going to hear the end of this. Especially from Laura.”

“I just lost a gold medal, I’m in mourning, I can do whatever I want,” Stiles says, his nose in the air, and Derek laughs.

“You hungry or anything?” he asks, and Stiles shakes his head.

“Uh-uh. You?”

“No, we ate beforehand.”

They walk back to the Village and up to Stiles’ room mostly in silence. Derek isn’t sure what to say—he’s not sure that _comforting_ is really his forte—so he just squeezes Stiles’ hand and bumps their shoulders together every once in a while. Based on the crooked little grins that Stiles keeps shooting him, he’s not completely failing.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Stiles says once they’re in his room, leaning in to give Derek a quick peck. “I’ll be quick.”

Derek nods and flops onto his back on the bed, realizing for the first time just how tired he is. It isn’t surprising, considering the time, but he manages to stay awake by thinking of Stiles in the shower.

The noise of a door opening causes him to sit back up, and he swallows hard when Stiles comes out of the bathroom in just his boxers. Somehow, he hasn’t seen him shirtless before now—he’s tan and leanly muscled, delightfully so, and Derek just really wants to get his hands all over him.

“Derek?”

“Hmm?” he asks, snapping his gaze up and cursing the heat in his face. Stiles is smirking, as if he knows _exactly_ why Derek was distracted, but he doesn’t mention it.

“I asked if you wanted to stay.”

“Uh, yeah—sure.”

Stiles’ smirk turns into an honest grin, and he turns around and backs closer to Derek. “Can you help with my tape?”

There’s hot pink tape on Stiles’ back, forming an intricate pattern around his shoulder blade, and Derek hesitates. “Does it hurt to take it off?” he asks, but Stiles shakes his head.

“Nope. I just can’t reach it very well.”

Derek picks at the tape edge with his thumbnail and winces automatically as he starts to peel it off, but Stiles doesn’t flinch. “Why do you guys wear this stuff, anyway?”

“I pulled a muscle in my back a few months ago, and this keeps everything in place and stabilized. It really helps.”

Derek finishes, crumping the pieces of tape into a ball and tossing it to the side. He scratches the lines on Stiles’ back, trying to buff away the slight tackiness left behind, and Stiles’ resulting moan is truly obscene as he arches back toward him.

“Wow, I’m jealous of whoever usually does this for you,” Derek says, and Stiles chokes on a strangled half-groan, half-laugh.

“Well, it normally doesn’t feel so good.”

Derek hums and keeps scratching until Stiles turns around and steps even closer. “Can I…,” he starts, fingering the bottom of Derek’s shirt as he looks up at him through his lashes. Derek nods and lifts his arms, helping Stiles take his shirt off.

“Fuck, look at you,” Stiles says lowly, and Derek shivers at the feather-light touches across his torso. “I was totally right.”

“Right about what?”

“I guessed that you’d be totally ripped,” Stiles says, with a sly grin. “And I was _correct_.”

Derek rolls his eyes and ducks his head to hide his blush, working at the button of his shorts. Stiles helps with the zipper, dragging his thumb purposefully down the half-hard bulge in Derek’s underwear. “Mmm, black briefs. I was right about that, too.”

Derek laughs— _maybe_ he wore his nice underwear, hoping that Stiles would see them—and turns around to get into bed, but he pauses on his knees when Stiles gasps.

“Oh my god, you have a _tattoo_ ,” Stiles says, the word getting lost and drawn-out in a moan.

He climbs onto the bed behind Derek and traces the spirals with his finger. Derek exhales wetly and maybe even lets out a little whimper when Stiles places a soft kiss right in the middle of the tattoo. He grabs Stiles’ hand and lowers them to the bed properly, pulling Stiles against his side.

He yawns, then, right in his face, and Derek smiles. “It’s like two in the morning,” he says, and Stiles groans.

“I know,” he says, lazily petting Derek’s chest. “Seriously, why did they make the games start so late. I’m exhausted.”

“Just go to sleep. I’ll be here in the morning, I promise.”

“Yeah? I won’t wake up to an empty bed?”

Derek shakes his head. “Fuck no.”

Stiles beams and leans up for a kiss, this one languid and lazy and sleepy. “Well, in that case,” he says, craning his arm to switch off the lamp on the nightstand. “I’m going to get some sleep so I can properly ravish you in the morning.”

Derek laughs. “Looking forward to it,” he says, scratching Stiles’ scalp just to hear him moan again. “So how are you feeling?”

“I might have cried a little in the shower,” he admits, and Derek smiles into his hair. “But I think I’m okay.”

“Good,” he says, aiming a kiss for his forehead and landing on his eyebrow. “Sleep well.”

* * *

Derek wakes up _hot_ , with a line of sweaty heat all along his front where Stiles’ back is pressed against him. Their legs are thoroughly tangled, and he has one arm under Stiles’ neck with the other wrapped firmly around his waist. He’s also hard, and without really thinking about it, he lazily thrusts forward a few times against what’s in front of him.

Stiles groans, hoarse and strangled from sleep.

The noise clears all the sleep fuzziness from his head, and Derek freezes. _Shit_.

But Stiles groans again, sounding more awake this time, and pushes his ass back against him. “Don’t stop,” he murmurs. “Please.”

Derek slides his top arm up and scratches gently across Stiles’ chest. “Are you awake?” he whispers, punctuating the words with a sharp bite to Stiles’ earlobe.

“Awake and fully consenting,” Stiles says as he arches back against him. “But I’m pretty convinced that this whole thing is a dream, so I’m not gonna ruin it by opening my eyes.”

Derek presses a smile to the curve of Stiles’ shoulder and moves his hand back down.

“Ow!” Stiles cries, blinking his eyes open and glaring at Derek. “You just pinched my thigh, you ass.”

“Not a dream.”

“Okay, fine,” Stiles says, tipping his head back against Derek and exposing his throat. “I guess I can live with this, then.”

“I’m so glad to hear it,” Derek says dryly. He can’t resist, though, and bends down to leave a line of sharp, biting kisses down Stiles’ neck.

Squirming against him, Stiles hisses satisfyingly and reaches a hand up to tangle in his hair. “God, that feels good.”

Derek murmurs in response, then tucks his nose behind Stiles’ ear and inhales—he always smells like sunshine, and this morning is no exception.

“Did you just _sniff_ me?”

Derek smiles against his skin and, undeterred, takes another, deeper whiff. “You got a problem with that? You smell good.”

Stiles releases a shaky exhale and shoves himself back, closer against Derek. “Shit, as long as you don’t move your hand.”

Derek looks down—he hadn’t even realized that he was tracing light patterns with his fingertips along Stiles’ hip and his happy trail. Based on the goosebumps that have broken out along the skin, he’s guessing that Stiles likes it. “You don’t want me to move my hand?” he asks, nibbling on Stiles’ earlobe again. “Even here?”

He ghosts his hand over the front of Stiles’ boxers, letting his thumb linger over the length of his dick that’s tenting the fabric. “Oh, kill me now,” Stiles says, squirming in his grip, “you’re a teasing fucker.”

“Well, you’re a _tickling_ fucker, so I have to get you back somehow,” Derek says, pressing a smile against Stiles’ shoulder as he thrashes.

“I could tickle you right now,” Stiles threatens. “Just flip you over, hold you down, and go to town.”

“Oh, yeah? I bet if you flipped me over and held me down, you’d want to do something else rather than tickle me,” Derek says, nearly as surprised by his own words as Stiles seems to be. He’s never been very good at, uh, _narrating_ during sex, but Stiles makes it easy.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Stiles whines. He rocks his hips back against Derek’s, giving his dick some much-needed friction, and Derek rewards him with one slow drag along his dick. “I was not prepared for this.”

“Prepared for what?” Derek starts biting a mark on the back of Stiles’ shoulder.

“Just… _you_ ,” he says. Stiles has a steady rhythm going with his hips now, pressing alternately against Derek’s hand in front and his dick behind, and Derek is dangerously close to coming in his underwear and embarrassing himself. “This is so much better than I thought it would be.”

“I’m not sure whether to be flattered or offended.”

“Flattered, definitely flattered,” Stiles gasps, and Derek sucks a little harder.

“So you thought about this?”

“Fuck, all the time,” Stiles says, twisting his head back to press his nose against Derek’s cheek and mouth lazily at his jaw. “Thought about holding you down and riding you, me behind you, fucking you up against the wall.”

Derek’s groan is echoed by Stiles’ when he finally shoves those boxers down. “M’not gonna last long enough for any of that,” he admits, and Stiles huffs a laugh.

“Yeah, me neither. There’s, uh, there’s lube in the nightstand.”

“I’ll get it.”

Derek braces his weight on one hand and leans over Stiles for the side table, jerking in surprise and banging his wrist with a hiss when Stiles closes his mouth over one nipple.

“You are a menace,” he manages to get out, but Stiles just winks at him and adds a little scrape with his teeth. “ _Fuck_.”

Stiles snatches the lube from his hand and reaches back awkwardly to push down Derek’s briefs. They both hiss as Derek’s dick smacks against the skin of Stiles’ ass, and he pauses for a minute to lean down and kiss him. They tussle playfully over the bottle, between kisses, and Stiles manages to accidentally squirt lube all over his own ass and the back of his thighs.

“Nice aim,” he says dryly, and Stiles laughs, bracing his forehead against Derek’s arm that’s still underneath him.

“Yeah, that’s definitely gonna feel gross later.”

Derek swipes up what he can to slick his own dick, then carefully tucks himself in between Stiles’ thighs as he reaches over to palm Stiles’ dick. “Is this—” he starts to ask, but Stiles cuts him off with a grunt and a sharp thrust of his hips. “Okay, I’m going to take that as a yes.”

“Yes, yes, _fuck_ yes, just shut up and kiss me.”

Stiles reaches up to tangle his fingers in Derek’s hair again, and he’s smiling as he tugs Derek’s head down. The kiss is breathless and hot, more of a mindless tangling of tongues than anything, and Derek hooks his leg over Stiles’ to give him more leverage. There’s a lot of coordination going on here—rocking his hips, stroking Stiles, kissing him—but Derek is a _professional athlete_ , thank you very much, and can handle it.

Sort of.

His rhythm falters when Stiles starts to suck and bite at his lower lip, so he lets his hips still and focuses on Stiles’ dick in his hand. Not like that’s a hardship—it’s a nice dick, and Derek puts more purpose and speed in his strokes. Everything is still slick and smooth, and Stiles is starting to make some spectacular noises. He’s squirming, too, so Derek’s own dick is getting plenty of stimulation between his thighs, bumping up against the back of Stiles’ balls.

“Oh, fuck, Derek, I’m gonna—”

Stiles’ hand comes down to clutch at Derek’s thigh, hard enough that there will probably be half-moon-shaped marks there later. And it’s that thought, Stiles _marking_ him, that sends Derek over the edge, muffling a strangled cry into Stiles’ neck as he comes between his thighs. He manages to keep his hand moving on Stiles, somehow, and even though his rhythm is shot, devolved into messy, disjointed jerks, it must still work for Stiles because he spills over his fingers with a whimper only about 20 seconds later.

He drops his head back against Derek’s shoulder and groans, long and decadent. “Oh god.”

Derek exhales slowly and thinks that there’s no way Stiles can’t feel his heartbeat hammering away against the back of his shoulder. “Yeah.”

Seemingly mindless of all the lube and come between them, Stiles flips over on his side to face Derek. He’s flushed and grinning, and Derek is pretty damn sure that he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life. “So was that good for you?”

“Eh,” he says with a shrug, grinning when Stiles smacks his stomach.

“Oh, please,” he says, waving his hand lazily. “I totally rocked your world.”

Derek laughs and bites at his neck. “Most definitely.”

He looks around, spots Stiles’ boxers hanging off the bedpost, and grabs them to do a perfunctory clean-up for the both of them. Stiles kisses him, lazy and slow, and murmurs a _thanks_.

“’S still early,” he slurs, the words muffled from where he’s now draped over Derek’s chest. “Go back to sleep.”

* * *

Derek wakes up the second time, what he’s guessing is a couple hours later, with a heavy weight along his side and a finger drawing soft circles on his chest. He grabs Stiles’ hand and kisses his fingers.

“I didn’t drool this time,” Stiles says, and Derek smiles before even opening his eyes.

“Wouldn’t have cared if you had.”

“Wow, what a sweet talker.”

There’s movement, and then lips on his, so Derek opens his eyes to the sight of Stiles on his elbows and knees above him. He kisses back, not really giving a shit about morning breath right now, and slides his hand down to palm his ass. “So are we not actually good luck?” he asks, breaking away from their kiss, and Stiles makes a questioning noise. “We kissed for good luck on Monday night.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, are you kidding?” he asks. “Just a little kiss and we almost won the gold. Just imagine what would have happened if we’d had sex.”

Derek laughs and tugs until Stiles’ weight is resting fully on top of him. “Good point. We’ll have to keep that in mind.”

“Speaking of, did you know that the running scientific theory is people who get bronze medals are happier than those who get silver?”

“Oh, really?” he asks, and Stiles nods.

“Something about counterfactual thinking and expectations, I don’t remember.”

“Very interesting.”

“Mm-hmm, especially because I have silver and you have bronze. That means you should be trying particularly hard to make me happy.”

“Yeah?” he says, flipping them over with a grunt so that Stiles is on his back. “Are you telling me that you aren’t happy right now?”

“Well, you know,” Stiles says with a shrug, trying and failing to look nonchalant. “Just something to keep in mind.”

Derek leans down on one elbow to whisper lowly in Stiles’ ear, spreading his other hand over the curve of his hip. “Then how about this?” He pauses for a second, just to thoroughly savor the way Stiles practically vibrates under his hand. “You tell me whenever you’re feeling sad about your silver medal, and I’ll blow you.”

“I’m feeling sad!” Stiles yelps, squirming against the sheets. “So sad, really just devas—oh, _fuck_.”

Derek would grin, smugly, but, well—he’s got a dick in his mouth now. He thinks about it, though.

He starts slow, just mouthing gently at the head and sliding his tongue down the side. Stiles is _petting_ him, practically, just running his fingers through his hair gently, and when he scratches, Derek most definitely groans around the dick in his mouth. “Derek, Derek, Derek,” he chants. “Oh god. That feels so fucking good, please don’t stop.”

Stopping is the last thing on Derek’s mind, and he picks up the pace instead, sucking harder and adding his hand to the mix. Stiles gives an especially hard tug to his hair a few minutes later, so Derek pulls off and speeds up his hand. Stiles comes with a thrashing whine, almost kneeing Derek in the gut in the process. But he moves out of the way just in time and keeps his hand on Stiles’ dick, stroking slowly until he winces and squirms in a bad way.

“I’m a hazard,” Stiles gasps, his chest heaving. “Sorry.”

“Maybe I need to wear a cup when I’m in bed with you.”

“Oh, fuck, please don’t,” Stiles says with a grimace, and then he pauses. “Unless it’s a jockstrap, then that’d be really hot.”

Derek snorts and presses a kiss to Stiles’ hip. “Noted.”

With a drawn-out groan, Stiles pulls at Derek’s shoulders. “C’mere, you big lug.”

He makes his way slowly up Stiles’ body, kissing and nipping until Stiles yanks his head up and kisses him, open-mouthed and dirty. His tongue is eager, trying to lick his own taste out of Derek’s mouth, and Derek happily lets him. Stiles worms his hand in between them to swipe through the mess on his stomach, then wraps his wet fingers around Derek’s cock.

“Oh, Jesus.”

Derek has to break their kiss to breathe and braces his forehead against Stiles’ shoulder. He looks down, the image impossible to resist, and shivers when Stiles breathes directly into his ear. “Goddamn, you looked so good doing that,” he says. His voice is husky, as if he needs to clear his throat, and _Derek_ did that, made him hoarse with pleasure. “Mmm, can’t wait to get my mouth on you, bet you taste so fucking good.”

Derek whines, completely incapable of speech right now, and he swears that he _hears_ Stiles’ grin in his voice.

“You like the thought of that? God, I just want to do _everything_. Get my fingers in you, see what all those muscles of yours can do when you fuck me. But we have time, right? C’mon, babe, come for me.”

Stiles’ touch is perfect, his long fingers wrapping around him seamlessly, and Derek’s orgasm slams into him, far more sudden and unexpected than usual. He watches himself add to the mess on Stiles’ stomach and can’t hold back his pained whimper. Stiles is whispering something soothing in his ear, and Derek drops down fully onto him, not caring that he’s just made a bigger mess.

Eventually he slides off to the side, not wanting to crush Stiles, and Stiles bends down to kiss him on the nose. “So I have a feeling that I’m going to be sad a lot,” he says, his eyes wide and earnest, and Derek laughs.

“Isn’t that a shame.”

**Author's Note:**

> I spent a lot of time thinking about their sports—do you think I picked good ones? Which ones would you pick?? :)
> 
> ([Come flail with me on Tumblr!](http://leslieknopeismyshiningstar.tumblr.com/))


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